


The Beckoning of a Spanish Moon

by eurydice72



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydice72/pseuds/eurydice72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in S6, a surprise request from Anya sends Buffy and Spike on a surreal quest, one that shows the Slayer just what her world has turned into, and what she needs to do to potentially fix it</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Verde

PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy has just started working at the Doublemeat Palace, and is continuing her clandestine affair with Spike. Takes place directly after DP, and before Dead Things. For the sake of this story, we're going to say that everything after DP never happened.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was my entry for the Spuffy ficathon at LJ, for i-digress-uk. It's a 4-part story, and a bit more surreal than my usual work.

*************

_Chapter 1: Verde_

Irritable didn't even begin to describe Buffy's mood as she stiff-armed the Magic Box door open, pushing so hard the bell didn't so much ring as it went slamming into the ceiling with a metallic death rattle. Her mood plummeted further when she saw an all too-familiar bleached head bowed over the counter, leaning conspiratorially toward an animated Anya.

It wasn't that she didn't want to see him. It was that she'd just _tried_ seeing him, only to waste the last hour of her day traipsing to his crypt and back when she discovered he wasn't home. Combine that with the disaster that had been her emergency early shift at the Doublemeat Palace of Poo, and Buffy was ready to twist the head off a Fyarl demon with her bare hands.

Maybe running into Spike right now was a monumentally bad idea. He might lose a body part she had interest in using some time in the future.

"…likes to eat children, but that shouldn't be a problem for you," Anya was saying to him.

On the other hand, this sounded potentially apocalyptic. Could be a good way for her to work out some of her frustrations without getting undressed with a certain undead guy. Not that they actually took off their clothes half the time, or were careful about it on those few occasions when they did, but it was the thought, right?

"Whatcha doin'?" she asked as she walked up to the counter and leaned forward against its edge.

"Just a bit of business," Spike replied. His gaze flickered over her uniform, eyes inscrutable as they lingered on her hips. A single brow lifted, and she caught more than a twitch of amusement in his lips. "Decide to mop the floor 'round the Palace with your bottom, Cinderella?"

Buffy flushed, straightening to ineffectually tug her top further down. Figures he'd see the enormous grease stain so inappropriately placed on the seat of her pants. Slipping on the tiled floor because she'd grabbed the wrong shoes in her hurry to get out the door had just been the first of her many disasters at work today.

Before the Slayer could snipe back at him about where exactly he could shove those particular appendages, Anya rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, please. Enough with the offended maiden routine. Like we don't all know he's _always_ checking out your ass." She hit the vampire on the back of the head, forcing a scowl when he finally tore his gaze away from Buffy's hips and back to whatever it was that was sitting on the counter between them. "Spike! Can we focus here? I'm on a schedule, and your time is my money." 

"Focus on what?" The diversion from thoughts of Spike's body parts checking out her body parts was a grateful one, and Buffy stretched to see what was holding their attention. A map. With lots of bright colors. And itty bitty lettering that she probably couldn't read even if it was right-side up. She frowned. Was it even in English?

She didn't get a chance to find out for sure before Spike yanked it away, stuffing it in a wad into his coat pocket. "Just business," he repeated vaguely. "Not really any of your concern."

"Like kitten business?" she said with faux innocence.

"Like _none_ of your business," he retorted.

"It's not a big deal," Anya interjected. "I'm hiring Spike to help me with the bridesmaids' dresses."

Buffy's eyebrows shot skyward, as did her mood when an unbidden image came into her head. "This doesn't mean you're going to start wearing frilly pink shirts and calling yourself Mr. Spike, does it? Because I think Xander might want to know about that so he's got his camera ready."

"And here I thought _you_ were the one interested in my Mr. Spike, luv."

She froze, the words trapped in her throat as her eyes flew to Anya in a panic only the vampire seemed capable of inspiring these days. So many lies had been told, and so many clothes thrown away to cover up the fact that Buffy was involved with Spike, and he was going to ruin all that with one little innuendo? Anyone else and she'd be able to joke it away, but around Anya? That was a whopper reveal if there ever was one.

"On second thought," Anya said, ducking down to dig around beneath the cash register, "I think I'm going to go with you."

_Or maybe not_.

"Hold up," Buffy said, stepping around to block the pair from leaving. "Children eaters usually fall under Slayer domain, not wedding plans, so what gives? If there's another apocalypse moseying to town, I think I should know about it."

"It's not an apocalypse---," Spike started.

"Yes, it is," Anya interrupted.

"They're just bloody dresses---."

"For my one and only wedding---."

"Considering it's with Donut Boy, that's not something I'd be crowing about if I were you."

"Since you're not the one marrying him, then there's no reason for you to be crowing, now is there, Foghorn?"

"Still not an apocalypse."

"Well, the fact that Julio absconded with my money without my having the perfect dresses to show for it seems appropriately dire to me," she finished.

"Who's Julio?" Buffy asked.

"A dead man," came the simultaneous response from Spike and Anya.

"For stealing your money?"

"No, she would mean that literally," Spike said.

"How does a dead man steal money?"

"That's what I want Spike to find out," Anya explained. At Buffy's growing confusion, she sighed. "It's really not that complicated. Julio's an old friend--- _was_ an old friend, the money-grubbing bastard---and when I couldn't make a decision on the bridesmaids' dresses, I invoked him to ask if he'd mock up a design---."

"You _invoked_ him? Why doesn't this sound like's got one of those rollaway carts at the mall, Anya?"

"Bloke's a moonshadow demon. Fairly reclusive. Only way to drag them out of their meditations is with the spellcasting."

"And I couldn't very well ask Willow to do it, not after everything. Xander would have a whole herd of cattle if I went to her, and then I'd have to resort to wearing that roller derby outfit again if I wanted to get _any_ kind of orgasms---."

"Point, Anya? Any chance of getting to it any time soon?"

"Right. So, Julio came up with this absolutely gorgeous dress. Exactly what I was looking for, only he says he doesn't have the money to make them unless I pay up front. _Not_ an ideal situation, let me tell you. I tossed and turned on that one for three whole days, debating the wisdom of parting with my hard-earned cash without having anything to show for it right away. I mean, it goes against every capitalist principle I know---."

"Long story, short," Spike interjected with a sideways glance, "she caved, he split, and now I'm off to see 'bout makin' amends. See ya, Slayer."

He was stopped by a hand on each of his arms, and wishboned for a second before grimacing at the two women who were watching him.

"Did you not hear me say I'm coming?" asked Anya.

"And you're not going anywhere until I hear more about these children eaters," Buffy added.

Talking looked to be the last thing Spike wanted to do at the moment, heavy brows a dark slash across his brow, his lips pressed into a tight line. There was a skittishness about him that hadn't been there when she'd first walked in, and he looked very much like he just wanted to be rid of her company, rather than trying to stick to her side like glue. It was…unnerving, and the irrational thought that her mood could have transferred to him, that her ill humor was a contagious, touching thing and that she leeched any good will from those around her just by her mere presence, was enough for Buffy loosen her grasp, her face suddenly too hot with an unaccountable shame.

"Or, you know, maybe not," she said, taking a step back. "Don't let me get in the way of your _business_." She practically spat out the last word, fury rising like a volcano inside her at her weakness. Since when did she care how she made Spike feel? "We always know well that turns out, don't we? I'm thinking safe distances might be in order so that I don't get caught in the fallout."

"Not feelin' spooked, are we?" he taunted. The vitriol surprised her, and for the briefest of seconds, she missed the soft-speaking vampire who couldn't seem to stop the endearments during their sex. "Don't fuss yourself. I don't think you've got a worry about the building fallin' down 'round your ears. Unless, of course, that's your particular kink, in which case---."

"Oh!" Anya exclaimed, blind to the tension that had sprung up between the two blonds. "Someone pat me on the back. I just had the most brilliant idea." Her smile was wide. "Buffy can come with us."

Both heads swiveled to stare at her.

"If you think I'm splittin' my fee---."

"I can't just leave Dawn---."

"It's perfect," Anya kept saying, ignoring their protestations. "I show up with two heavy hitters, and Julio won't stand a chance at weaseling out of our deal."

"I thought you said he was missing." Buffy's mind was racing. It was one thing to want a good fight; it was another to be stuck with Spike in a prolonged social situation with someone who would most likely pick up on the hints he kept dropping like lead balloons. "And…and…Dawn."

"With Julio, missing is a relative thing. And Xander can watch over Dawn. I'll just tell him I need you for some female thing and he'll do whatever I ask just to get out of hearing the details."

"What about my fee?" Spike demanded. "I didn't---." He cut himself off, casting a glance at Buffy as he visibly reassessed his words. "If you want the Slayer to do this, just say so," he tried again. "She can use the dosh more than me, I'd bet."

"I'll pay both of you," Anya offered. She turned to Buffy. "Is it worth a hundred dollars to you to come along and look menacing?"

"Three hundred."

Buffy's jaw dropped as she gaped at the vampire. This conversation had long ago crossed the border to absurd, completely bypassing the waystation of logic in favor of sneaking into the land of craziness, and now with Spike haggling with Anya for her Slayer services, she was beginning to think maybe she would've been better off staying at work to put in a double-shift. Anything had to be saner than this.

"That's ridiculous, Spike. She won't even have to do anything because of the whole demon-only rule." Pause. "One-fifty."

"Four hundred."

"What? You're supposed to go down instead of up! Don't you know anything about bartering for services?"

"I know Buffy's worth a helluva lot more than you're willing to fork over. Keep arguin', and we'll make it five hundred and double mine."

Spike looked smug in the face of Anya's annoyed indignation, leaving Buffy wondering what he was holding back regarding the situation. Finally, the ex-demon sighed and said, "Two-twenty-five. And your personal guarantee that Julio can't meditate for the next century."

"My pleasure," he said with a grin.

"Well, it's not mine," Buffy interjected. "First of all, Anya, you don't have to pay me to help you. If you really need---." She yelped when Spike's hand curled around her bicep and yanked her away, glaring up at him when she tore away from his grip.

"Take the money, pet," he said in a low voice. His eyes were glittering with barely controlled anger, nostrils flaring, and she felt a shiver of desire course down her spine at the danger in his aspect. "This might not be apocalyptic, but it's not a walk in the park, either. Not to mention that Shopgirl's bein' more than just a mite vengeful in this little enterprise, and what she's askin' you to do has got nothin' to do with saving the world for Santa Claus."

"I don't---."

"I know." She saw his hand lift as if to touch her face, but a quick glance at Anya over her shoulder halted the movement. "But this is business, Buffy, unpure and simple. You deserve to get paid for it."

She had to admit…it was tempting. Two hundred dollars would go a long way to climb a mountain of overdue bills. It wouldn't get her over the peak, but it wouldn't leave her wandering around the bottom, wondering how she was ever going to make it up the steep side.

But she didn't reply to Spike, instead turning on her heel to face Anya.

"It seems like a lot of money to shell out to us just to get a couple dresses," Buffy said. She caught the quick frown the ex-demon shot Spike, but by the time she'd looked back at him, his face was blank, watching the two women as indifferently as if he was standing in line at the grocery store waiting for his turn to checkout.

"It's the principle of the thing," Anya said. "We had a deal and Julio reneged on it. Sometimes, vengeance costs. And I'm OK with that."

Buffy sighed. "How long is it going to take?"

"You'll be home by morning. I promise."

"And you're sure these are the dresses you want?"

"They're perfect. Trust me."

As she made reluctant arrangements to get picked up after a quick shower and change of clothes, only one thought kept ricocheting inside Buffy's weary mind.

_Famous last words._


	2. Negro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy has agreed to help Anya do something about her missing bridesmaids' dresses, with Spike along for good measure…

_Chapter 2: Negro_

She'd expected to hear his motorcycle come roaring to the front of her house, like a lion furious for prey, but when Dawn yelled up the stairs that Anya was waiting outside, Buffy frowned, unsettled by the silence that had predated the announcement. It was only when she stepped onto the porch and saw the sullen gleam of chrome in the approaching moonlight that she understood why.

Behind the wheel of the DeSoto she'd long thought gone and forgotten, Spike sat half-cloaked in darkness, only partially visible through the open windows, his hands silvery against the steering wheel as they tapped out a syncopated rhythm from the radio that pulsed faintly in the night air. Smoke filtered from the far side of the car, wispy tendrils that dissipated the closer they got to the stars, and for a moment, she was there with it, trapped within the effluvium, soaring and fading with each encroaching yard to the heavens, because Heaven was done with her. No room for her there now. It would see her consumed first.

Her gut clenched. This was a mistake. She should never have agreed to this. She was going to combust if she went through with it.

Before Buffy could turn and flee back to the oasis of the house, Anya poked her head out from the back seat. "Hurry up!" she called. "We've lost enough time from Spike's stop at the Qwik-E-Mart." She disappeared for a moment when the vampire said something unintelligible, and Buffy heard the muffled, "Oh, you do not," from Anya before she reappeared again.

"Why do I have to be in front?" she asked as she approached the car.

"Because if any of Julio's buddies see me coming, we'll never get in," Anya replied.

She bit back the question of what exactly they were getting into and slid onto the front seat. It was way too reminiscent of the last time she'd been in the DeSoto, nearly a year earlier on that ill-fated "date" Spike had arranged when she'd learned about his true feelings for her. Would she have ever imagined that she'd be back in its interior, sitting there with his dusky eyes regarding her in calculated assessment? Could she have known that he would be the one to ultimately break through the barricade of apathy that shielded her from the fragile world around her?

Short answer? Not in a hundred billion years.

The long answer threatened her with a headache of heroic proportions.

"Didn't I see you had a map?" Buffy asked brightly, desperate to distract herself from the theoretical crashing of an abundance of taunting vagaries.

"We won't need that until later," Anya said from the back. "You know the way to the gate, right, Spike?"

His reply was a sharp twist of the wheel as he did an impossible u-turn in the middle of the street. "Suggest you settle back and get comfy," he said. "This part's the not so amusin' part of the amusement ride."

Buffy didn't have to be told twice. If Spike was warning about dangerous driving, then that was a warning she was going to take seriously. Nimble fingers secured her seatbelt as she slouched down in the seat, the top of her head so low she couldn't even see out the windshield.

"Didn't mean you had to take crash position, pet."

"Considering how much time we've spent together, Spike, this is pretty much the norm for me these days."

It was meant to be derisive, and had sounded so in her head. But when the words escaped, they teased with a gentility that was uncharacteristic of her lately, an affection so apparent in her tone that it shocked both of them into silence. Buffy saw his furtive glance into his rearview mirror, the question of whether how much the Slayer had actually admitted with the comment had registered with Anya lingering in his face, but relaxed when the knuckles that had tightened around the steering wheel eased their grip.

She'd gotten away with it. Again.

She was beginning to wonder if all her so-called slip-ups weren't some hidden message from her subconscious trying to get out. Leave it to Buffy's brain to look for backdoor solutions to non-existent problems.

"Why didn't you turn?" Anya asked. There was a creak of leather as she sat forward and leaned over the front seat to stare through the slits in the windshield. "The alley by the museum's the easiest way to get there."

"It's not the fastest," Spike replied. He used his elbow to nudge her hands off the headrest. "It's why I told you to buckle---."

Buffy shouted when her door suddenly bowed inward, driving her to pitch sideways to the center of the seat. She could hear Spike cursing under his breath, a string of invectives usually reserved for when he was only truly pissed off, and then saw the wheel wrench counter-clockwise out of his grasp.

"Get down!" he ordered when she tried to sit up, pushing her head back to the smoky leather.

The sickening twist in her stomach told Buffy the car was careening in circles and she felt the first shreds of panic when she glanced up to see what Spike was doing.

He'd vamped out, his eyes yellow slits as he snarled at whatever he could see through the windows. With his lips drawn back in fury, he looked every inch the killer she'd known when he'd first arrived in Sunnydale, the veins in his neck popping in bas relief from the force he was exerting on the wheel. Rather than being frightened at his appearance, though, Buffy was more scared at what could've provoked such a response, and curled her body in preparation for the crash she thought was imminent.

Anya's shriek from the back seat accompanied the smashing of the windshield. The glass held in its frame, the dozens of spidering cracks giving it the appearance of modern art, and Spike's bellow of proud indignance finished off the surrealism Buffy felt herself thrust into.

And just as quickly as it had started---well, not that quickly because it felt like it had lasted forever---it ended.

Her blood was roaring inside her head, her heart a virulent staccato against her ribcage, and it took all of Buffy's resolve to lift her head from the seat. The car's interior was bathed in light, streaming in from whatever illumination was igniting the street. Though Spike's door looked the same, a quick glance revealed the concave buckle that bowed the passenger's behind her, and she slowly turned back to see the frantic worry in the vampire's now-human face.

"You all right?" he asked. His hand dropped to unhitch her belt, then roamed the expanse of her torso in search of injuries. "Not hurt, are you?"

Buffy slapped him away, straightening in what remained of her seat. "What the hell just happened here?" she demanded.

"Spike's shortcut almost got us all killed." Anya's head appeared in the mirror, disheveled but unharmed, and the barely disguised anger in her brown eyes was unmistakable. "It's a testosterone thing, isn't it? If you'd just gone past the museum like I said---."

"I got us here, didn't I?"

"No, you got us stuck."

"Did you at least get us to this gate thingy?" Buffy asked.

"Well…" Anya and Spike exchanged a quick look. "Kind of, pet."

The non-answer was all she needed to send her over the edge. "OK, that's it," Buffy announced. "Change of plan."

"What? No! No change. I don't have my dresses or my money yet."

"You can get 'em on your own. I'm out of here."

Her foot lashed out at the broken door behind her, sending it flying from its hinges. Ignoring the shouts behind her, Buffy jumped from the car to begin the walk home.

*************

Anya and Spike stared at the gaping hole in the DeSoto.

"Well…balls," the vamp muttered.

"Double balls," she agreed. When she saw him start to slide across the seat after the missing Slayer, her hand shot out and grabbed his arm. "Just where do you think you're going?"

"I'm not just leavin' her out there."

"And so you're just going to leave me in here? She's not the one who's paying you!"

"Slayer's got no idea what she's got herself into." Carefully, he unfurled Anya's fingers. "Just stay put. You'll still get your dresses. Just might be a bit…later than was agreed."

She sighed when he disappeared through the opening. "Stupid, lovesick vampire," she grumbled, settling back into the leather. "He's definitely sitting at Uncle Rory's table for this."

*************

She was still standing frozen in the spot she'd landed when Spike appeared out of nowhere behind her. "Something tells me we're not in Kansas anymore," Buffy said slowly, not bothering to turn around and look at him.

She was riveted by the landscape. It was Sunnydale, but not the Sunnydale she knew. It was as if someone had drawn the town on an Etch-a-Sketch, and then picked it up and randomly shaken it, so that only half the outlines were there in a jagged horizon. Overhead, the sky was an endless swath of ebony, broken only by the orange globe of the moon dangling in dangerous proximity to the earth, and there was no denying the sense of peace that was suddenly suffusing her.

"What kind of magic is this?" she breathed.

"Doors aren't magic, luv. Just physics in motion."

"Did we go through the gate that you guys were looking for?"

When his silence stretched longer than she expected, Buffy turned around to see Spike kicking at the black grass. An embarrassed smirk twisted his lips, and he just shrugged when he caught her looking.

"I took the back way in," he explained. "Burned the bridge that would just let me come and go the right way last time I used it. And…I didn't exactly tell Anya I couldn't get her in through the front door. That was…all that to-do was the gate gettin' pissy about letting me through."

"You call nearly crashing your car just a _to-do_?"

"We're all in one piece, aren't we?"

"For now."

His eyes were dark as he stepped closer. "You sure you didn't get banged up back there?" Spike asked softly. "Got a little bit rougher than I thought it would."

She held herself from flinching when he reached up to push her hair back from her face. "I just want to know what's going on," Buffy replied. "This gate thing. What is it and how come I never saw it coming?"

"You're not a demon, pet. You not seein' it's a matter of acuity."

"A matter of huh?"

"Perception. You're human so you'd never suss it's there. Kinda like the way it was with Rack's place, except, well…not." A hand ran through his unkempt curls as he searched for the words. "All it is, is a doorway to a…demon asylum, you could say. Didn't you ever speculate how you killed so many baddies 'round town but didn't hardly see them until they came out to do their dirty work? Well, what you're standin' in is where a lotta demons come to lie low. Anya got word this was where that Julio was hidin' out."

"And the map you have is a map to this place?"

He grimaced. "The map that's still back in the car, you mean?"

"Oh. Damn."

"Doesn't mean we can't still find him. Just have to be more creative about it."

For a long moment, she just stood there, breathing in the crisp air, the scent of his leather making her skin warm. "Why are you helping Anya?" she finally asked, her voice low in order not to shatter the calm that had settled between them.

He shifted his weight, his discomfort driving his hands back into his pockets. "It's not like I'm doin' this out of the kindness of my heart," he said defensively. "I'm gettin' paid for my efforts here."

"Somehow I find it hard to believe that Anya's paying _both_ of us to do this one thing. I don't care how vengeful she's feeling, this is still her money we're talking about."

"What else could possibly bring me back to this place?" Whirling on his heel, Spike began marching down the broken walk, his step sure and able along the jagged concrete.

"Where are you going?" Buffy said, sprinting to catch up to him. "We can't just leave Anya…wherever she is."

"Why? She's not goin' anywhere. At least one of you birds is smart enough to know not to get out of the bloody car. It's just as well. She wouldn't last two seconds before something decided to take a bite out of her."

"That doesn't make it OK to abandon her."

"We don't have much choice in the matter," came the reply. "Only way to get out is to go further in."

As Buffy tripped along the walk, skirting the occasional rock and crevasse as she kept pace with Spike, she decided she felt like Alice on the other side of the looking glass. Any minute now, she fully expected a little white rabbit to come scurrying along with a pocketwatch, complaining about being late before disappearing into another hole. Wouldn't Anya love that, she thought, and almost smiled. Maybe it _was_ a good thing they'd left her behind. On top of everything else that had happened, she wasn't sure she had the patience to deal with one of Anya's screaming hissy fits about the psychotic habits of little fluffers.

The silence was deafening, even the sounds of their steps swallowed up by the ground itself. "Is it safe to ask what you did to make them so cranky about letting you back in?" she asked, desperate for some semblance of normalcy in an otherwise cockeyed world.

_Conversation with Spike?_ That's _normal?_

Except, she knew it was, knew it had been, once upon a time. He'd been the only one she could talk to for those long months after she came back, oddly comforting in his understanding, quietly waiting for her without making any demands. It had only been since they'd got physical that things had…stagnated. Was she silly for missing the way it _had_ been?

It took him a minute to answer her. "There's a certain non-fighting agreement that I decided was a bit of rubbish," Spike finally said.

Buffy stopped in her tracks. "Non-fighting? As in…non-fighting? No punch-y, no hit-y?"

"Think that's what I said."

"How in hell were you planning on getting to this Julio guy without fighting?"

"What? You don't think my charm and good looks can work on the demon half of the population? I'm hurt, luv."

"They didn't even work on _me_ , Spike."

He pretended to nod in understanding. "Should've known it was my hot, tight little body that finally did you in."

"I'm serious."

"And I'm tellin' you, you don't have anything to worry about. If he doesn't come around with sweet talk, then we'll go with the tried and true. Not like they can ban me twice now, now can they?"

"Do you even have an idea about how we're going to find him?" Buffy's outstretched arms embraced the emptiness of their immediate surroundings, her bare arms eerily orange beneath the full moon. "For being a demon hideaway, it seems remarkably short of demons."

"That's because we're in the not-so-nice part of town. Demons stay away from here if they can help it."

"Since when are the evil and ugly so picky? I thought not-so-nice was right up their alley." His lips pressed shut in a very much, I-don't-want-to-talk-about-this way that wasn't that typical of Spike considering he'd usually talk her ear off if she let him, and she stepped around to block his way down the path he'd chosen.

"I'm getting sick and tired of wandering around here in the dark," she started again, but he was speaking before she could continue her diatribe.

"Kind of hard not to do when it's nighttime, luv," Spike commented.

Her fist slammed into his jaw before she could stop it, and Buffy watched Spike go flying to the walk behind him. "Why can't you just give me a straight answer?" she shouted. "Are you _trying_ to piss me off? Because that's what it looks like from this angle. That, and you're deliberately not telling me stuff that just might prove non-fatal if things go wrong."

He didn't say a word as he leapt back to his feet, just kept his eyes level with hers. Steady. Like he was waiting for something. And deep within the blue…

Pain.

Buffy swallowed as the acid in her stomach threatened to revolt. She hated that look. She hated that he could have it in the first place. Spike wasn't supposed to have emotions that ran stronger than hers, and Spike wasn't supposed to care more about the world than she, and Spike wasn't supposed to do a lot of things, but he did. He took her punches, and he did as she asked about keeping them a secret, and even when he slipped and said something that could give them away, he was appropriately contrite afterward. He did it because he loved her.

And she hated him for it.

And she hated herself more for not being good enough to deserve it.

She'd never tell him that, of course. He'd either spend the next hour gloating or trying to convince her she was wrong, and Buffy couldn't stomach either. She just wanted things to go back to the way they'd been before. When he wasn't using her physical cravings for the moments of bliss he gave her that blocked out the pain of the rest of her moments as proof of something more. When he'd understood that the light hurt her eyes, and used himself as a shield from it without her ever having to ask for it.

When she hadn't been wrong.

She felt her anger deflate, her eyes falling from the gaze that could stare her into the next century if he so chose. "All I want are answers," Buffy said dully. She pivoted on her heel and began walking again toward whatever it was he'd been leading her. "I never thought that was such a bad thing."

His presence when he fell into step beside her was an unexpected relief, and she could sense the tension in his arms, his desire to do more than just be there, to take her in an embrace she wouldn't fight off, palpable even to her. "Seems to me," Spike said quietly, and she knew he was choosing his words carefully so as not to enrage her again, "wanting answers and bein' willing to hear them are two entirely separate things. I know you've got the first covered, luv, but…"

He didn't have to give voice to the question. Buffy heard it loud and clear.

She just didn't know how to respond to it.


	3. Rojo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy and Spike are inside the back door of the gate, looking for Julio…

_Chapter 3: Rojo_

She decided it was the absence of all the little things that made it seem so eerie. There were no chirping crickets, no far-off harmony of automobiles, no slight buzzing from lamplights overhead. The moon gave more than enough illumination, but the orange-red glow that diffused across the black surfaces of the street did little to warm them, leaving Buffy craving the familiar pools of light from home. It was entirely too still, and too sickly to be anything not preternatural, and she mused for a moment on what she would say to Giles about it when she got back…only to feel her throat tighten when she remembered that the Watcher wasn’t there for her to tell any longer.

Not everything was unsettling, though. With Spike at her side, his hands thrust deep into his duster and his mouth uncharacteristically silent, it was suggestive of more than one memory after her death, where they would stroll on patrol without saying a word but really without needing to, and she felt safe, safer than she did in the refuge of her house and the circle of friends who’d insisted on bringing her back. He knew that, of course, just as he always seemed to know everything else, but never brought it up, choosing instead to accept her lead and follow wherever she needed to go.

So, when she saw the familiar landscape of the cemetery, it was only natural for Buffy to veer off the path. This was where she belonged, after all.

“Where are you goin’?” Spike asked. He’d stopped as soon as she stepped from the curb, and was looking ahead at the graveyard gates in curiosity when Buffy turned back to address him.

“You said this Julio was a moonshadow demon, right?” She pointed to the low-slung orb in the heavens, hanging over the perimeter of an ominous mausoleum. “I assume that’s not because his favorite vacation spot is a loungechair in Hawaii. Doesn’t it look like the moon gets bigger in that direction?”

He’d started nodding halfway through her words, and dropped off the walk to come to her side. “We’re getting closer to where’d he’d be more likely to do his yogi bit, too,” he said. “Looks as good a place as any to start the looking.”

The double-chains that barred intruders coiled like aged serpents through the black iron bars. As Buffy tilted her head to examine where best to break them, she felt a gentle brush against her hip, and then saw Spike leap to the top of the ivy-covered brick wall.

“Mite faster, and less likely to get the wrong sort of attention,” he commented at her silent inquisition.

Nodding, she mimicked his jump, following him over the crest to land with a soft thud on the grass below. “Why does a place like this need a cemetery?” she asked as she scanned the grounds.

Spike shrugged. “Never bothered to ask,” he said.

As they resumed walking toward the ever-growing moon, the pall that had distinguished their earlier trek disappeared, leaving Buffy more talkative than she’d felt in ages.

“So, seriously now, do we have anything resembling a plan in our near future? Not that winging it isn’t the normal modus operandi for me when I’m officially down one Watcher, but something’s whispering in my ear that this isn’t exactly normal.”

When he stumbled---so slight, she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been intimately aware of how his body moved---she couldn’t help but wonder what she might’ve said that could’ve unsettled him. The grass was clear, and the light was bright. There were no physical reasons for him to go Chevy Chase on her.

“Nothin’ as solid as what you might think,” Spike replied. “If I can’t talk him into makin’ good with Anya, then I’ll just have to beat him into doin’ it.”

“Any little moonshadow tricks I should know about? He doesn’t have poisonous tentacles or secrete acid or something like that, does he?”

“Wouldn’t matter if he did. _You’re_ not the one who’s here to fight him.”

She stopped in her tracks at that bald statement. “I thought all that talk about looking menacing was just metaphor,” she proclaimed, hands on her hips.

“Someone needs to buy a better dictionary, then,” Spike replied without breaking stride.

“But I thought Anya---.”

“You thought the most literal bird on the planet suddenly decided to take a class in subtlety?” He was smirking when he glanced back at her. “That was your first mistake, luv.”

“Oh.” Buffy began walking again, her step quick as she returned to his side. “Well, I’m sure it won’t matter if I get a punch or two in. I’ll just---hey!” She yanked her arm away from the grasp Spike had stopped her with, glaring up at him in burgeoning anger.

“You. Don’t touch him. Got it?”

His voice hadn’t risen, his temper still calm, but there was a deadly determination in his face that raised Buffy’s hackles, like Spike thought he could actually dictate to her the protocols of going into a fight. She began to say as much, only to have him cut her off---again---with a repeat of his order.

“At least tell me why,” she demanded.

His exhalation was frustration leaking around his mood’s tether. “Moonshadows are empathic,” he finally said. “They take whatever negative emotions you might be experiencing and then turn ‘em around into, well…food. You get pissy ‘round him and the next thing you know, you’re pancakes. Kind of why I’m hopin’ we meet up with him soon here.”

“Huh? Did I miss a rung in this half-baked plan of yours?”

His gaze was a velvet assessment on her. “Remember wondering ‘bout this bein’ the wrong side of the tracks?” Spike asked. “That’s why.”

“What’s why?”

“Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

Before she could react, Spike placed one hand on her shoulder to keep her from moving, covering her eyes with the wide palm of his other. It left her locked in stasis and blind to the outside, with a warming sensation that started in the pit of her stomach. After a full minute of blossoming darkness, she felt him lean in and silkily whisper, “First instinct, pet. Tell me how you feel.”

The single word response surprised Buffy, not with how quickly she said it, but rather she was in a place where she could say it at all. “Peaceful.”

He was nodding when his hand fell away, removing himself from her personal space again. “That’s the yin yang of the backdoor versus the front. Drives most of the demons here crazy, so they stay away from it.”

“It doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“I’m not most demons.”

She held her tongue. In spite of a rising instinct to agree with him, Buffy knew she couldn’t ever voice it; Spike would never let her forget that she’d admitted to one of his sore points. Instead, she commented as glibly as she could manage, “Or, enough of that Dru wackiness rubbed off on you to make you immune to the effects. That could be an explanation, too.”

Catching the dilation of his pupils as she strolled past him made her body ready for the fight she knew he wanted. When Buffy felt his hand wrap around her bicep to spin her around, she used the anchorage of his weight to swing her leg in a wide circle, hooking behind his knees to send them both sprawling to the ground. They landed on their sides, his duster wending around her just enough to tangle her tighter with his limbs, and she felt the rising hardness in his jeans press against her hip as she fought to regain a superior position.

“So much for peaceful,” Buffy said, and then grunted when Spike rolled her over his head onto her back, following to straddle her, his powerful hands locked around her wrists and pinning them to the frigid earth.

“You’re the one who attacked here,” he growled.

“You grabbed me.”

“’Cause you were walking away.”

“No, I believe I was walking toward our fashion demon.”

“Only because you can’t stand facin’ your own,” he snapped back.

She hated when he got so philosophical on her, and hated it even more when he was right. With a determined glare, Buffy twisted her shoulders to try and force him off, but was surprised by Spike’s rough shove, her verbalized cry of pain stifled by the slam of his mouth to hers.

It was a brutal kiss, not meant for passion. His teeth scraped against hers, his tongue furious, but the moment she started to respond, Spike pulled back, leaving Buffy panting, and sizzling, and dumbstruck at the reversal of his attack. She braced for the verbal barrage she expected to come, only to be mystified when he remained unmoving, uttering only a single word.

“Breathe.”

The seconds slid into a minute, then two, while Buffy’s chest began to slowly ease its heaving. The quietude that had possessed her limbs prior to their comments returned, just as she felt the constriction dissipate from Spike’s, until his fingers were barely touching her wrists in their prison, the weight of his body more a lover’s caress than a combatant’s blow.

“I didn’t let you come along so that we’d be at each other throats the entire time,” he said quietly. “This isn’t about us fighting.”

“You’re right,” she replied. “It’s about helping Anya.”

He took a moment too long to respond. “Yeah,” Spike finally said. “Marrying Harris, she’s goin’ to need all the help she can get.” Glancing at their hands, his dark gaze slithered down her bare arms with the hunger of a man who knew he lacked the time to savor a grand buffet. “If I let you up, you think you can keep your fists aimed in a non-contact direction toward the demon who really _is_ against you?” he asked.

Buffy’s eyes jumped over his shoulder. “You mean, the one about to stab you in the back?” she asked. Taking advantage of his laxity, she rolled to the side, pulling both of them out of the path of the long stiletto that came whistling through the air to be embedded in the soft earth. Simultaneously, they leapt to their feet, to face off with the blade’s owner as he extracted his weapon from the ground.

He was almost skeletal, razor-thin with long arms on a short body, nails like blood-red, curved talons on the tips of his fingers. Silver quills ran from the back of his head down his spine, and his skin was almost translucent, allowing the function of his veins to be seen beneath its surface. It gave the impression of hundreds of thousands of scarlet spider webs meshing to pulse with his every movement, disconcerting Buffy enough to make her eyes refuse to focus. She’d never seen a demon like it before, and wondered what she was going to have to do to kill it.

“You’ve gotta be Julio,” Spike drawled at her side.

The casualness of the statement took both Buffy and the demon by surprise. “Do I know you?” he asked, the tip of his knife dropping to point at the earth. The high pitch to his voice seemed out of place on something so scary-looking. “I don’t owe you money, do I? Because the last vamp I fell into pot with didn’t look anything like you. Well, except for the pale-skin and dated taste in clothing.” He swept a disdainful crimson gaze over Spike’s attire. “That black does nothing for your complexion, by the way. You should consider more jewel tones. Blues, purples. Maybe some red.” He grimaced. “Oh, then again, maybe not the red. It’s just so, you know, cliché.”

“Is this guy for real?” Buffy asked, looking up at Spike.

“Wait.” The stiletto came back up, aimed directly at the Slayer. “You _are_ human. I thought I smelled it on the two of you.”

“I keep telling Spike to stop stealing that cheap cologne, but do you think he listens to me?”

His features hardened, ignoring her attempt at humor. “You don’t belong here, human. Is your deathwish really _that_ strong that you’d resort to getting a vampire to bring you through the gate? Although, how he managed to last this long without draining a tasty morsel like you has got to take fangs of steel, if you ask me. That’s either truly inspiring, or truly pathetic. I’m not sure which.”

Echoes of his sentiments inside her head made Buffy’s throat constrict, her skin begin to crawl in anticipated anger. Her muscles were already tensing to take a step toward him when she felt Spike’s strong hand on her shoulder, clamping her in place, but when she looked up at him, his gaze was trained on the demon.

“Funny you havin’ a bias against humans,” Spike said evenly. “That why you bilked Anyanka outta her hard-earned dosh?”

The uttering of the ex-vengeance demon’s name made Julio pause, his blade wavering in silvery glints in the air. “How do you know about that?” he asked cautiously.

“Know a lot of things. But the bird’s a friend of mine and seein’ as how the thought those dresses made her just a mite happier, it doesn’t please me none that you’d go and run off without givin’ her what she wanted.”

“And she sent you here to collect.” Julio shook his head, but didn’t lower his weapon. “Anyanka always was a stingy bitch.”

“You _robbed_ her,” Buffy exclaimed. She didn’t know why she was surprised at his show of non-remorse---he was a demon, after all---and in spite of Spike’s warning about keeping a rein on her emotions, felt the frustration start to rise again.

“Lemme guess. You’re a friend of hers, too.” He sniffed, and the slits that passed as a nose wrinkled in distaste. “What is that horrific stench?” He sniffed again. “You didn’t actually bring Doublemeat burgers in with you, did you?” he asked. “Those will take the scales off a Lishla demon at ten yards.”

“I showered! Why can’t anyone figure that out?” Hands on her hips, she broke free from Spike’s hold and took a step forward anyway. “And yeah, I’m Anya’s friend. Consider me official spokesperson from the bridesmaid camp.”

“Really?” She squirmed when he tilted her head, as if looking at her sideways would somehow help him pick up on something he missed the first time he looked her over. “Is she mad at you or something?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Have you _seen_ the dress I designed for her?”

“No. What does that matter?”

“It’s just…the color’s not exactly one that’ll flatter you, hon. And the neckline…and ruffle…” Julio shrugged. “Maybe she picked it out because it’ll look good on the others.”

“Not that she would know, considerin’ you’ve seen fit to gyp her outta what she’s got comin’ to her.” Spike was back in the fray, positioning himself awkwardly between Buffy and the moonshadow. “Let’s talk about either you paying her back, or making good on your dress deal.”

“Can’t.”

“You mean won’t.”

“No, I really do mean can’t. I don’t have the money any more.”

Buffy ignored Spike’s blatant attempt to exclude her and elbowed her way to his side, folding her arms across her chest in her best try at looking menacing. “Where is it?” she asked.

“Where else? I spent it.”

“It was supposed to be spent on Anya’s dresses. Or did that little detail escape your memory?”

“I can’t make her dresses if I’m dead, now can I?”

This was sounding way too familiar to Buffy, and she shook her head in disbelief. “Please tell me you didn’t use her money to pay off a loanshark,” she said.

Her accurate assessment took him by surprise, and Julio’s blade dropped just a little bit more. “Actually, it was a little guy up in San Francisco’s Chinatown. He had the most beautiful aqua silk I’ve seen in the past decade. I just couldn’t resist.”

“You bought _fabric_?”

He seemed affronted at her surprise, his quills bristling. “What? It’s not like I was gambling for kittens or something!”

“No.” Buffy leveled a firm stare at Spike. “Because that would be stupid.” She didn’t know if she should laugh or scream at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. How did she constantly get put into these spots? Oh, yeah, because she’d been _Chosen_. God, she hated that word. Because no longer did it refer to her calling, but to the friends who’d _chosen_ to bring her back.

“What happened to the good old days?” Buffy continued. “Is there something wrong with demons just killing for what they want any more? Did someone start a Let’s-Go-Straight Anonymous when I was dead or something?”

“Well, that would’ve been dumb of me,” Julio said. “If I killed Soo-Jin, I wouldn’t ever get any more of the silk. Why would I do something as asinine as that?”

“Because you’re a _demon_ , maybe?”

“Being a demon doesn’t make me stupid.” With a shake of his head, he turned away from her to Spike. “I’ve decided you’re truly pathetic. With a worldview like that, she’s going to stake you as soon as she’s done with you, you know that, right?”

“Probably,” the vampire agreed, shocking the Slayer to gape up at him. “And stop changing the subject. What’s it goin’ to take to get Anya her dresses?”

“Frankly? A miracle.”

“Oh, look,” Buffy muttered. “My specialty.”

She only meant to knock him down. In spite of Spike’s indirect reasonings on why she shouldn’t fight Julio, Buffy just didn’t see the harm in using the element of surprise she had to help Spike get the advantage in the battle she saw as inevitable. It was just a flying kick, after all, and she was wearing good strong boots. Up and down. Fast as lightning. Where was the bad?

She didn’t hear Spike’s shout at her when she leapt through the air. And she didn’t see the hasty rise of the stiletto as Julio tried to block her contact. She only felt the soft give of his flesh as her heel connected with his chest, but instead of sending him flying backwards, the kick seemed to merge her flesh to his, sending both of them tumbling sideways to the ground.

Ice leeched up her leg with the speed of quicksilver. The graveyard was gone, the black grass vanished. All Buffy could see were the myriad of images soaking her consciousness, lit by a scarlet moon that whispered its seductive call to her soul.

_…dirt…clinging to her lashes with a grit that stung her eyeballs, choking in her throat and driving beneath her fingernails as she scrabbled to the earth’s surface…_

_…too-bright light as she blinked in unawareness at the people staring down at her, faces that were familiar but not, the urge to run and hide driving her away from those she knew she had once called her friends…_

_…the expectancy in their faces when they’d surrounded her in her own home, crowding in and speaking too fast, too loud, too everything, so that the world wouldn’t stop spinning around her, careening with an ever-growing speed as it threatened to tilt off its axis and send her pitching back to the heavens…_

_…her gravestone staring solemnly back at her under the midnight sky, because nobody had bothered to get rid of it after she came back, or to warn her about where they’d put it until it was too late, and Spike had to be the one who found her kneeling in the broken sod, digging at the dirt like an automaton as she tried to get back to the coffin that had held her away and safe…_

_…Spike…always watching her, whether she was babbling away about nothing, or whether she was silent in the midst of a patrol…hands cool and powerful every time he touched her, hands that knew the pain of killing and dying and loving and hating…_

_…and the blood, always the blood, whether it dripped from a victim’s neck or her own weapon, coating her existence in red like a blanket ready to smother…_

*************

He tried to stop her. He’d honestly thought his warnings had been enough. But even as Buffy jumped forward with her leg outstretched, Spike realized he’d just been fooling himself. The girl was a fighter. She’d go out punching and kicking even if someone lashed her hands and legs together.

But when he saw the pair go down in a tangle, and the red mesh that decorated Julio’s skin began to seep into Buffy’s, panic overwhelmed him. She’d been snippy during the inquisition, but she hadn’t seemed angry. Spike had assumed she was doing well in keeping the negative at bay.

He should’ve known it was always there, simmering away like a volcano just waiting to blow. After all, wasn’t he on its receiving end often enough?

His reaction was instinctive. With lightning speed, Spike dropped to try and pull her away, hooking his arm around her waist as he frantically tried to prise her from the moonshadow’s repast.

He had to save her.

He couldn’t let her die again.

He couldn’t let her.

He couldn’t.

*************

Buffy had always thought red was a warm color, like fire and flames ready to burn her up, and though it did burn, it did so with a freezing intensity that thrust her back to wandering the streets of Sunnydale looking for Dawn during the singing debacle. It chilled her now, leaving her numb and pensive and waiting for the end she knew was approaching.

But…then it changed.

Shifted, rather.

Because before…there had been a jumble, as memories were stolen from her head, converted to a frigid energy that sucked her life from her flesh, rushing and tumbling and merging so rapidly through her consciousness that she could only wish for it all to cease. It wasn’t an unfamiliar wish. Often, she woke from restless nightmares to pray that she hadn’t. It was the main reason why she tried so hard not to sleep around Spike. Invariably, she woke to his comforting, the rocking and soothing whispers and soft caresses to her hair that felt right, and wrong, and right, all at the same time, and she couldn’t deal with it, because dealing with it meant accepting that things were bad, and she was supposed to be getting better about all this, damn it. Wasn’t that what the others expected?

So, when the change came, when the red began to soften, and the chill began to wane, her first thought was that it was Death, come to claim her again. And she was relieved.

But was she?

_…and it was Spike again, only these were no pictures she could remember seeing before…_

_…bowed and sobbing with blood dripping obliviously down his face, and she could feel his grief, feel it as palpably as her own, felt the shame for failing her eat at his unbeating heart…_

_…pulling a vampire from a screaming Dawn, snarling and raging as he plunged a stake through the demon’s chest and not even waiting for the dust to clear before running to the teenager’s side and scooping her against his chest, both of them crying before her cheek even hit the leather…_

_…and then her face, as she was coming down the stairs, and the hope that swelled inside him made him feel like he was glowing---effulgent, was that even a word?---and for a split second, Buffy felt beautiful, as she hadn’t felt since she’d come back…_

And the world came back into focus, the scarlet moon that had seemed so welcoming now receding back into the ebony carpet of the sky, and her limbs were starting to thaw as strong hands laid her out in reverence along the grass. She blinked once…twice…and then saw Spike’s worried face hovering above her.

“Did we get him?” she croaked, and it felt like her voice hadn’t been used in centuries.

His grin was automatic. “Thought I told you to keep your fists away,” Spike admonished, but there was no true reproval in his tone.

“I did.” She struggled to sit up, but the twirling of the world and Spike’s insistent hands kept her flat on the ground. “You never said anything about my feet.”

She watched as his smile faded, solemnity returning with a pale vengeance. “That was bloody stupid, you know,” he said quietly. “He could’ve killed you.”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he could’ve.”

“But he didn’t.” She turned her head to see an unconscious Julio lying just a few feet away. “And it looks like he got the worse end of the deal, anyway.”

“Buffy…” The seriousness of his voice drew her attention back, and she gazed up at the lowered lashes. “What he said…before…just tell me…did you do it on purpose?”

_“Is your deathwish really that strong?”_

“Does it really matter?” she whispered.

The shutters that came over his eyes weren’t fast enough to hide his disappointment. “’Course not,” Spike said quickly. “Just matters that you’re right as rain now.” He began to straighten. “Better get Julio back to Sunnyhell before he wakes up. And go grab Shopgirl from the DeSoto. Don’t think she’s goin’ to be too thrilled ‘bout bein’ stuck in the gate’s back door for this long---.”

“Spike.”

He didn’t stop from standing, though there was a definite hitch in his normal gracefulness as he stretched against the sky. “Yeah, Slayer?”

“Thank you.”

Though he nodded in acknowledgement of her gratitude, Buffy knew he didn’t completely get the why of it. How could he?

She wasn’t even sure she did.


	4. Blanco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy and Spike have managed to find Julio for Anya…

_Chapter 4: Blanco_

She almost wished they hadn’t been successful with Julio when Anya showed her the dress design.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Anya gushed. Slim fingers traced over the illustrated sleeves, and Buffy could swear she could the green reflecting off the paper onto her friend’s skin. “It’s exactly what I want. Nobody can make a dress like Julio.”

She wanted to say, _because nobody would want it_ , but the Slayer just nodded, the fake smile she’d been wearing all afternoon while she watched over the preparations for the demon’s captivity still going strong. Getting him back to the Magic Box had been relatively simple, though she’d gotten lost following Spike through the meandering cemetery paths as he led them to one of the exits from the other dimension. Of course, her mind had still been reeling from the contact she’d shared of the vampire’s emotions when he’d yanked her away from Julio’s grasp, but she’d covered it up by inflating the extent of her injuries. And Spike---good old reliable Spike---had believed every word she said, too eager to make sure she was all right to notice when her pretend limp faltered, too relieved that she was still amongst the walking and breathing to demand any further explanations of her post-empath encounter conversation.

Rescuing Anya hadn’t been nearly as easy. And she really had exacerbated her mild injuries when they’d fought the same maelstrom that had tried to slow them the first time. Spike had argued left and right about leaving the DeSoto behind, but when Anya threatened to take it out of his payment if he dared to put the car in a higher regard than she, he’d shut right up, resorting to grumbling under his breath as he led the way through the melee.

That had been the last Buffy had seen of him.

“I’m assuming a check is all right,” Anya was saying, jerking Buffy from her thoughts.

She blinked, unable to focus on the piece of paper that was being held out to her for a long moment before shaking her brain back to normalcy. “Oh, yeah, sure,” she replied. She only cast it a cursory glance before adding, “Do you need me to take Spike’s check to him? Except, I guess it’s going to be cash, huh? He’s kind of short in the identification department to have a banking account or anything like that.”

Turning back to the register, Anya shook her head. “You don’t have to worry about Spike,” she said. “I’ve already paid him.”

Her attention piqued. “He was here? When?”

The ledger she’d been holding fell to the floor with a ruffled clatter, and Anya disappeared from view as she bent to retrieve it. “He wasn’t,” came the muted reply. “I sent it over to his crypt.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know why she was disappointed. But they really hadn’t had a chance to talk since the whole thing happened, and for some reason, Buffy had this overwhelming desire to just be with Spike, even if they didn’t discuss what she’d felt during their escapade. Maybe she could get him to stop by the Doublemeat during her shift that night…except that thought vanished as soon as she remembered the last time he’d done that, memories taunting her of how she’d shut him up from talking by dragging him into the alley and going down on him until he was fucking her into the wall, all because she hadn’t wanted to listen to him tell her yet again how she was better than that place.

She did that a lot.

Too much.

“You don’t need me for anything else, do you?” Buffy asked. “I can really use some sleep before work tonight.”

When Anya patted her arm, like a mother would a child, it took all her control not to bat her friend’s hand away. “Yes, you do,” Anya said. “And you might want to consider some of that concealer to hide the shadows under your eyes. I don’t think sleep is going to be enough for you.”

She didn’t have a response to that. So, Buffy just nodded and did what she did best.

She fled.

It crossed her mind more than once on the walk home that she could take a detour through the cemetery so that she could see Spike, but in spite of her earlier desires, she was at a loss as to what she would say to him. Not that he would demand conversation, but if she showed up without having a plan, they’d end up in bed---metaphorically speaking, of course, because they never seemed to actually _make_ it to Spike’s bed---and for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she didn’t want that. Well, she _did_ , with her body at least, but not her head. There were still too many unanswered questions and unresolved feelings that had been stirred up by what had happened on the other side of the gate.

And hadn’t she claimed to Spike that all she wanted was answers?

How could she tell him that in one breath and then in the next, swallow him down in kisses that promised her oblivion from the tempest of her brain? If nothing else, being reacquainted with the peaceful euphoria that had been so pervasive during her death had showed her just how low she had fallen, but the grief and frustration that had sucked her into Julio’s parasitic embrace was just the tip of the iceberg on how far she could yet tumble.

Did she want that?

Did she really?

She’d been relieved when Spike had pulled her away, and felt a stirring of warmth deep inside when he’d looked at her with such genuine concern. If she really did have a deathwish, wouldn’t she have fought that?

The thing of it was…she didn’t know. She was weary, both in body and spirit, and all she wanted right then was to sleep.

Surely, answers would sort themselves out.

*************

If hell was paved with good intentions, Buffy figured she would be well on her way if she hadn’t already so recently visited it with Spike and the Rootin’ Tootin’ Dress Designer Rescue of the Decade debacle.

Five days. Five days where she slept, went to work, patrolled, and then came home to start the cycle all over again. And not once in those hundred-plus hours had she seen Spike, or gone to Spike, or even talked to Spike on the phone. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity. Or motivation. Or desire, for that matter. It was just…easier not to.

What surprised her was that he stayed away from her as well. Normally, Buffy would’ve expected him to show up at the Doublemeat to whine about needing to talk, or to be together, or at the very least to try and goad her into admitting what they had between them was real. But he didn’t even lurk about in the alley when she was leaving, and not once she did see his motorcycle parked across the street.

He didn’t even show up under his tree to watch her bedroom window in silent longing.

She knew that for a fact.

She’d watched for him.

So when the hum of an engine being silenced in her driveway filtered through the closed living room curtains, Buffy’s first instinct was that Spike had finally caved. She fought the urge to jump up when the doorbell rang; let him see that she hadn’t really missed him--- _liar, liar, pants on fire_ \---and that she could lead a normal life where vampires who loved her weren’t the end-all be-all of the universe. But she listened with a keen ear, alert for the whisky rumble that felt so much like home these days.

Dawn’s squeal at the front door made Buffy frown, and she leaned forward on the couch just in time to see the familiar shape fill the entry, the teenager’s arms still clinging tightly to his neck. She was on her feet in a shot, hugging him just as rabidly, only letting go when Dawn’s muffled protest for air reached her ears.

“Well, that’s certainly a more…robust greeting than I imagined,” Giles said with a small smile.

He looked good, a light jacket hanging over his worn jeans, and there was a twinkle in his eye that Buffy could only attribute to succeeding in surprising them.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” she demanded. “And you’re not staying at a hotel. There’s plenty of room at Casa de Summers for my favoritist Watcher. And _why_ didn’t you tell us you were coming? We could’ve…baked a cake or something.”

Giles’ lips twitched in amusement. “Yes, well, as…thrilling as the prospect of your culinary escapades are, I’ve been rather busy. Making arrangements and such.”

Buffy’s face fell, and she retreated a step as she deliberately calmed her rushing nerves. “Of course,” she said. “We’re probably just a layover for shop business, right?”

“Well, it’s shop business, but hardly a layover.”

“You’re staying for a few days then?” A trickle of hope. God, it was good to see him. Her world just made so much more sense when he was around.

“Longer, actually. May I?” Gesturing toward the couch, Giles waited for their assent before taking a seat, letting out a long sigh as he rubbed tiredly at his face. “I don’t know when it happened, but I do believe demons have taken over the airlines. It’s the only explanation why traveling so far can make you feel worse than before you started.”

“Do you want something to drink?” Dawn asked. She was hovering in the entrance, eyes shiny with expectation. “There’s still tea in the cupboard from last summer.”

“Actually, a cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.” He waited until he and Buffy were alone before speaking again. “You’re going to sit, aren’t you? All this hanging about is too tiring for these old bones at the moment.”

She smiled as she joined him on the couch. “So, shop business, huh? For a second there, I thought you were showing up to help out with another apocalypse.”

“Well, I am, if you were to consider Anya and Xander’s wedding as such.” At her puzzled frown, he added, “Anya called me in England earlier this week. Apparently, she’s finding it difficult to give the shop adequate attention in light of the wedding arrangements. She asked if I would consider coming back until after the ceremony, as, as she put it, she doesn’t want to lose her cash cow before it’s ready to be slaughtered.”

They both chuckled at the blunt statement, but it didn’t stop Buffy from asking the first thing that popped into her head. “And you just dropped everything to come back to Sunnydale?” she queried. “All because Anya was wigging out about her bridesmaids’ dresses?”

“Well, I didn’t hear the specifics of her nuptial concerns,” Giles said, “but I did take a look over the ledger pages she faxed me. She’s made quite a few uncharacteristic mistakes in my absence, though thankfully, not costly ones. But certainly serious enough to require my presence until she’s thinking clearly again. Between that, and Willow’s…issues, and…” He grew serious. “How _are_ you? Honestly, now. No prevarication.”

“Honestly? I’ve been better. But at least I’m not dead, right?” He only shook his head at her failed attempt at humor. Buffy sighed. “I’m…coping. Sometimes, just barely. But I’m starting to think that maybe there’s a light at the end of the tunnel after all. But not one of those I’m supposed to be walking into so that I can meet and greet everyone who’s died ahead of me. This one’s more…like coming home.” Her eyes were solemn as she regarded him. “A lot’s happened since you left, Giles.”

As they settled back onto the couch, she found herself spilling all the details that she’d kept bottled inside her for so long, never once noting any pity or condescension on her Watcher’s face. Even after Dawn came in with the tea, Buffy kept talking, her relief too great to allow her to stop.

And amidst it all, she finally knew what she had to do. Because now she understood just what had been going on with Spike all along.

*************

He surprised her by being outside, leaning against the wall of the crypt as he smoked a cigarette, pale smoke curling around his head as he stared up at the sky. He didn’t even look down when she stopped in the grass, just lifted the white stick up to his lips to take another drag before murmuring, “So this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a Slayer.”

“Gee, Spike,” she said, though her mouth was twisted in a smile, “melodramatic much?”

His cigarette made a crimson arc against the ivy climbing the crypt walls as he flicked it away. “Not wrong, though, am I?” he countered. “Aren’t you here for our last hurrah?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Haven’t seen you since we dropped off our little Spanish package. Why wouldn’t I think it?”

“I think the real question is…why _would_ you think it?” Glancing up at the almost full moon brightening the sky, Buffy said, “I like this one better than the one in…” She turned a quizzical gaze back to Spike. “What was that place called?”

“Lutwidge.”

“No, seriously.”

“You think every demon hangout has to be unpronounceable?”

“No, I just don’t expect them to sound like somewhere even Giles would find stuffy.”

“Guess you’ve still got a few things to learn then, don’t you, pet?” Straightening from his perch, his duster made a dry rustle against the leaves as he turned back to his door. “Care to share what brings you by over a little bit of Jack?” he asked.

“Actually…” Buffy chewed at her lip, her first doubts about the wisdom of her choice making her falter. “I was kind of hoping you’d like to take a walk. With me. Together.”

That made Spike stop, but his eyes fixed on an unknown spot on the graveyard’s horizon. “Got something you want to show me?”

“No. I was hoping we could…talk.”

“We’re talkin’ now.”

What was that in his tone? She couldn’t puzzle it out, and he was refusing to look at her so that she could try to read him more accurately. “I’d rather do it sober,” Buffy said. “And moving. My brain works better when I’m moving. And since when are you one to argue with me about wanting to talk? Are we still in Demento World and nobody’s bothered to tell me?”

With a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders, Spike ambled away from the crypt, lingering just along at her side to prompt her into moving. Ahhhhh. Comfort. Odd how she could relish such a simple thing.

They walked in silence until they’d rounded the path by the Hoffman Mausoleum, their arms faintly brushing in the cool night, each musing on his and her private thoughts. And then…

“Giles is back,” Buffy said. “But then, you knew he would be, didn’t you?”

“If you’re askin’ if I had a bet on how long he’d last in Merry Olde, you’d be mistaken, pet.”

“You don’t have to pretend, Spike. I know about the agreement you made with Anya. Did you really think I was going to buy her not being able to keep her books straight? I’m just surprised Giles hasn’t figured it out yet.”

His hands seemed to disappear deeper into his pockets, his tread slightly louder in the nighttime hush, but the vampire held his tongue. There was a resolution to his limbs that stole from his natural nimbleness, but it only served to prompt Buffy into continuing the words she’d planned on sharing.

“I mean,” she said, “paying _both_ of us to go after Julio? _So_ not Anya. And lemme tell you, she was mucho relieved when I asked her about it. She’s not really big for the secrets, though she’s still keeping up the pretense for Giles’ sake.”

“He say how long he’d be stickin’ it out this time ‘round?”

Spike was still playing at neutrality, and it leadened Buffy’s heart. “Indefinitely.” Pause. “Is that what you wanted?”

“All’s I want is for you to be happy, luv.”

“Why’d you do it, Spike? You have to’ve known things would be different between us if Giles was around.”

He stopped in the path, kicking at some loose rubble that rested in the grass. “Knew that was a risk,” he conceded. “But…nothin’ I was doin’ was making a difference. And I can only take you bein’ miserable for so long. I may be a selfish bastard, but seein’ you like that…knowin’ I couldn’t just love the bad stuff away…it was tearing me apart, Buffy.”

“I wasn’t _completely_ miserable. Not all the time.”

His laugh was a death rattle. “Please. I _have_ eyes. And you really think you’d let me fuck you in the grease pit’s back alley if things weren’t all pear-shaped? Problem was, I was always so bloody grateful you were even lettin’ me touch you, that you were comin’ to me for what bits of comfort I could give you, I never could think straight when you were around. It was always…after, when you’d gone, and I’d start remembering…” Spike dropped heavily on the edge of a grave marker, legs sprawled out in front of him as he picked at his fingernails. “So, yeah, I made the deal with Shopgirl. Not like I could call Rupes and say, ‘Your Slayer’s goin’ ‘round the bed, so stop bein’ a git and get your ass back here because she needs you.’”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And what if I hadn’t found that Julio?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t get your hopes up only to have it go all to cock if I failed.” Finally, he looked at her, and his eyes blazed in the moonlight. “You _are_ happy he’s back, right?”

His pleading tone drove her closer. “Yeah,” Buffy said. “He showed up at the house after dinner, and I talked his ear off about stuff until after Dawn went to bed. It just felt so…normal to be able to tell him what was happening. And he didn’t even really say that much, which for Giles is a switch.”

“So…does that mean I should be sleeping with one eye open in case he decides to protect his Slayer’s honor?” Spike asked.

“I didn’t tell him that part.” Taking a deep breath to quell the nerves that were suddenly racing, she blurted, “I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

She saw the effect as immediate as if she’d plunged a stake into his chest, and cringed when Spike’s hands returned to his coat pockets, his feet resuming their trek through the cemetery. She didn’t know where he was going, but the important thing was, wherever it was, it was away from her.

“Right. Knew I was goin’ against the secret card when I started this. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’d want to play it.”

“That’s not what I said,” she argued with an angry huff as she raced to return to his side.

“Oh, so you’re sayin’ you want to spill on all the sordid details about us shagging? Don’t think so, pet. You haven’t been able to tell any of your friends about us; why should your Watcher be any different?”

“Will you just listen to me?” Yanking him to a halt, Buffy forced Spike to turn and face her. “Do I have to be beating you up in order to get any kind of attention from you?”

“Look, I’m not interested in the post-game rehash. You got your Watcher back so you can go and be all kinds of happy now without me. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Someone to help you through all this who wasn’t the resident evil? Well, guess what? Wish granted.”

“Just because Giles is back, doesn’t mean I don’t ever want to see you again. It’s just…I’m tired of everything in my life being half-empty. I want to start being a half-full kind of gal. I deserve that, Dawn deserves that, my friends deserve that.” She used his lapel to pull him closer to her, the familiarity of his scent making her head swim. “ _You_ deserve that, Spike.”

His lashes were lowered, the hollow of her throat seemingly easier for him to focus on than her face. Any other time, Buffy would’ve seen it as a distinctly sexual move---his neck fixation was almost as strong as his adoration for her hands, which she’d always thought was weird---but in light of what she’d learned from him at Julio’s touch, and what she’d decided over the past week, she knew he was just frightened.

Which wasn’t a word she normally associated with Spike.

And not one she wanted to see continue.

“Things need to change,” she said softly. “You said it yourself. The way things were between us…it wasn’t healthy. And I don’t think it’s what either one of us really wanted, do you?”

“Can’t fault the shaggin’, pet,” he replied with a shadow of a smirk. “ _That_ was bloody fantastic.”

Buffy smiled with him. “One of these days, you’re going to have get over these delusions that you’re some kind of sex god, Spike. They’re embarrassing.”

“Like you weren’t screamin’ to bring the house down.”

“If I remember correctly, the cops showed up because of _your_ inability to keep your mouth shut, Mr. Oh-God-Don’t-Bloody-Stop.”

“Good times.”

The camaraderie glowed between them for a moment before Buffy returned to what she had to say. “I miss the way we used to just…be together. Before the kissage got in the way. I want to go back to that.”

Spike nodded, as if this was what he’d been waiting all night for. “Have to give you props,” he said. “You’re the first woman I’ve loved who’s ever given me the ‘let’s be friends’ speech instead of cheating or nattering on about me bein’…” He grimaced. “Can’t say that it still doesn’t hurt like a bitch, though.”

“That’s not…look, if I said I loved you right now, we’d both know I was lying. But…” Her head fell. This was so _not_ turning out how she’d envisioned. Why was she so much more articulate in her head? At least she hadn’t hit him. Score one for Buffy to sticking to at least one of her resolutions.

“It’s all right. I knew bringing Rupert back was goin’ to cost me. The only thing that matters to me is that you get a shot at bein’ happy, Buffy.” He grabbed her chin and tilted her head back so that she could see the sincerity burning in the blue. “The _only_ thing.”

She kissed him. She didn’t know why, and even as his hands slid down to her shoulders, Buffy chastised herself for breaking the second of her resolutions, but she did it anyway. She just…needed to.

She broke away before he could deepen the caress. “The part about things changing,” she said breathlessly, “what I meant wasn’t us pretending none of it happened, because, believe me, there is no way _I_ could do it, I tried that and it _so_ doesn’t work, but…just…doing this right, and not imagining that phenomenal sex is enough to cover up everything that was wrong.”

“Phenomenal, eh?”

“And how did I _know_ that would be the one word you would pick out of that entire speech?”

“Heard the whole thing, luv. Just…not sure I believe it’s real.”

“Why?”

“Because Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s not exactly renowned for bein’ a great thinker, and this…this sounds like all you’ve been doin’ is thinking.” Spike’s hand cupped the side of her face, his thumb stroking the sharp line of her cheek. “Where is this coming from?”

“Believe it or not, from you. And from having the time this past week to sort through everything I felt when we were on the other side of the gate. And from realizing that this might not be heaven but it’s definitely not hell, either. Not with my friends and family all around me.”

“Don’t forget the Big Bad here.”

“Silly vampire.” She elbowed him playfully before pulling him back to the path. “You’re both.”

As they began the long, slow trip back to his crypt, the moon gleaming at them in the horizon, Buffy allowed herself the luxury of sinking into the satisfactory warmth of believing she was doing the right thing. It wasn’t going to be easy, and it wouldn’t be as convenient as Willow’s clean slate spell, but it was a start, which in her head, was miles better than being an end. She couldn’t see how it was going to turn out; for all she knew, one or the both of them would do something completely horrendous and fuck it all up. And she wasn’t entirely sure how the others would react to the return of Spike’s presence to the fold. Playing nicely with others wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

But she was going to try.

She _wanted_ to try. Like she hadn’t wanted anything since being brought back.

Funny what a designer demon and some moonlight could do to a girl.


End file.
